There is a spot on the left side of the bridge of my nose that I only recently discovered. It has the precision of a birth mark, like the more visible one I have above my right eyebrow. But it could also be the pocked remains of a period pimple. I don't know for sure. I'd have to revisit photographs of my self for proof. My takeaway from the revelation is that I have been too conscious and cautious when it comes to spending time in front of mirrors; given my congenital fear of my own judgement. Because I inadvertently internalised all the negative criticism I'd been exposed to, from as early on as childhood, about my appearance, about the darkness of my complexion, I didn't feel entitled to feeling beautiful. Compliments made me uncomfortable. I was always sceptical about hidden agendas. I was aware that men could prey on women like me who claimed a precarious self esteem. I have spent most of my life avoiding mirrors. I acknowledge them, but rarely ever look into them for fear of having to confront my feelings of inferiority. There has also often been the fear that the reflection one encounters conflicts with the image you have in your head about your appearance. Lighting is crucial; if it's good enough, the reflection is bearable; if it isn't, then I sometimes want to cringe when I see my skin bleached by white light.

Of late, though, since I went to the Khadi outlet in Khan Market and spent close to 30 minutes before attending the VS Gaitonde Memorial Lecture, and I picked up extremely attractively priced products, like a cucumber toner and a herbal night cream, I've been reconfiguring my conflicted relationships with reflective surfaces. Unlike many more well known brands, the Khadi night cream cost just R270; the cucumber toner less than R200. I filled it into the empty spray container I had which used to house vetiver water by Kama, gifted to me by a writer friend, Bee Rowlatt. This was about two weeks ago. I decided that each night, after I was done brushing my teeth and washing my face, I'd spray the cucumber toner on my face, wipe each pore with a cotton pad, then take a pea-sized bit of night cream and rub it into my face and neck. I do this consciously and attentively in front of the mirror. It compelled me to look at my face more forgivingly. I began to enjoy thinking in front of my reflection. I began to notice my own presence. It began to ground me, in a way. The other day I thought of my girlhood reflection so full of self-doubt and so apologetic about the way I looked, and I felt like hugging her and telling her she was beautiful, no matter what anyone said.